


The Devil is in the Details

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur Pendragon had always prided himself on his attention to detail."</p>
<p>Basically, Arthur notices a freckle on Merlin's thigh during fellatio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil is in the Details

           Arthur Pendragon had always prided himself on his attention to detail. One did not grow up under the constant scrutiny of an imperious father, not to mention the onus of being heir apparent, without learning a thing or two about appreciating the finer points of life. Arthur knew, for example, the proper names and placements of twelve different utensils and which he should reach for depending on the course and celebration in question. He was aware, too, of how southern lords where to be greeted (hands on shoulders, cheeks brought together affectionately), which, if one did not wish to start a war, should never be used on a baron or duke from the north, who much preferred to clasp forearms. And then of course there was the armor, poured like unction over extended limbs in precise order, the weapons of chivalry, swords, maces, halberds, each of which required its own specific care and maintenance, treaties, alliances, feasts—it was enough to drive a Prince mad. But from an early age Arthur had trained himself, in body and mind, to memorize the seemingly insignificant minutia of royal life till he could swim through the motions of court as easy as breathing, certain that even the most infinitesimal detail never escaped his rapt attention.

            Which is why he was so shocked when, in the midst of kissing his way up Merlin’s leg, he discovered a freckle on his inner right thigh. Any other man would have thoughtlessly overlooked it, but Arthur paused in his ministrations to eye the brown fleck, anomalous against the doughy background of skin, like a dewdrop from a painter’s errant brush. At first he suspected it was nothing more than a speck of dirt; he worked his thumb over it in rough, tiny circles, but this served only to set Merlin to squirming against the satin sheets, his head lolling from side to side on plump, feather pillows, as the Prince’s name tripped from his lips in a breathless, plaintive moan.  With a backwards scowl towards the offending mark, Arthur leaned forward and took the other man into his mouth.

            For you see, the same reverence with which Arthur applied himself to courtly etiquette and decorum was likewise extended to Merlin. Counted among his considerable _connaissance_ was the knowledge that his servant owned but five tunics in total, two red and three blue, and only one kerchief of each hue, or that, despite Gaius’s instance of his frequent presence at the tavern, the dark-haired man was practically a teetotaler. He knew of no faster eater, most meals engulfed in a whirlwind of mastication within a matter of minutes, save, of course, for lemon tarts, which were devoured with languid devotion. Though he tried to deny it, Arthur was well aware that when Merlin slept, curled up in a crooked ‘ _S_ ’, he snored gently, lips parted ever so slightly, and had been known on one or two occasions to drool. But perhaps best of all, he could count, to the second, the time it took Merlin to shut his eyes, heavy lashes slicing the air like dancers, each time Arthur kissed him.

            That was how it was the first time, as they tumbled through the woods, bandits hot on their trail. Arthur would never forget the crack of twigs underfoot, the verdant _whish_ of leaves whipping past their faces. And then there was the salvation of the cave, clutching their stitched sides, their breath quick in the darkness, there was distance, then, suddenly, none, there were lips, contact, passion, relief. Arthur could never have fathomed that there would be so much to learn about the man who had orbited his life for so many years. He would not have guessed that beneath the miasma of ointments and fragrant poultices he prepared for Gaius Merlin would possess a heady scent all his own, a musk tinted aroma that stirred the blood in his veins. How could he have imagined the heft of Merlin in his hand, the warm thickness of him as he filled with blood, the weight of his lithe frame straddled atop him, the pliability of his flesh? The expanse of his skin was a map which Arthur studied with all the passion of a cartographer, till he knew, intimately, the valley of his stomach, the ridges of his ribs, the deep lakes of his collar bones. The terrain of his body became more familiar than the woods of Arthur’s youth; every inch was imprinted on his mind, the chorus of grunt and moans they elicited when touched like birdsong in spring. He memorized his scent, the tang of the sweat that clung to his neck, yet he never could have suspected that every time Merlin came with a shudder and a choked gasp, as he did now, the taste that ran across the Prince’s tongue would remind him, inexplicably, of roasted almonds, lightly salted.

            Arthur thought on all of this as they lied intertwined in bed afterwards, their breathing creeping to listless crawls. Merlin was tucked against his chest, narrow shoulder encompassed within his grasp, Arthur’s brawny arm snuggly wrapped around the smaller man. The black hairs on the back of his head swayed slowly as Arthur’s breath caressed them. If he were not already, he would soon be asleep; Arthur knew that, once spent, it was a herculean struggle for Merlin to keep his eyes open for more than a handful of moments. As he drifted to sleep in his arms, Arthur wound a hand down between Merlin’s thighs to trace the newfound freckle with the edge of a nail. Arthur did not consider himself a sentimental man, poetry better left to the poets. He preferred to show affection rather than speak it, but if put to the sword and forced to, at least to himself, perhaps he would say that what he loved most about Merlin was just this, the fact that there always seemed to be something new to discover.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a challenge for myself, with a (semi)-strict 1,000 word limit. This is to tide me over between a couple other projects I'm working on. This is my first time writing from Arthur's perspective, which I enjoyed, and will be doing again soon with my next (longer) story. Thank you so very much for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
